


Strawberry Wine

by Nebulad



Series: Blessed Are The Righteous [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Prince!Sebastian, Slightly Altered Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She peeked through the peephole first, to make sure whoever was there was worthy of wasting her time on. It was Sebastian, looking agitated and impatient, and she hesitated for a second. <i>Was</i> he worth the time? If it was important, certainly, and it looked important, but for the infinite love of Andraste if she had to argue a side in his fucking identity crisis one more time she was going to snap.</p><p>She opened the door.</p><p>“I’ve made a decision,” Sebastian declared.</p><p>She shut the door, and he pounded on it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Wine

It was strange to enter the cellar through the proper stairway instead of slaughtering her way up through the Darktown passage (that she’d sealed that long ago), but in her haste to leave the place and confront Gamlen about his boldface _lying_ about their inheritance, she hadn’t had time to properly explore. It was full of strange little pieces that made her skin feel electric and her stomach mildly queasy— magic, no doubt— and dusty little figurines.

The dancing women looked particularly fine, made of smooth multicoloured glass that was caked in old dirt. Apparently slavers couldn’t be arsed to dust the antiques once in awhile— although to be fair to them, the house was probably in a state of disrepair long before they got it. She’d lived in Gamlen’s home long enough to know how closely acquainted her uncle and filth were.

Besides dirty dancing figurines, there were also ornately carved boxes full of tarnished jewellery, ancient and rusted swords hanging limply from their display plaques, moth-eaten dresses with embroidery years out of fashion…. and a delightful little cabinet full of strawberry wine.

It was dark stained wood with slightly uneven shelves, but otherwise looked in a perfect state. That any sort of alcohol in the house had survived both the slavers and Gamlen was mildly suspicious, but Marceline had a weakness for wine and her mansion had felt… empty as of late. Leandra had a suitor she spent time with— how Hawke had never run into them was _beyond_ her— Bodahn and Sandal still had a merchant’s role to play, and Orana was still terrified of her. The dog was hardly a conversationalist, and spent most of his time at the barracks besides.

Marceline carried only one bottle upstairs with her, and carefully poured herself a glass. She retrieved some of Varric’s poison strips from a box near her crafting station, and dipped the paper into the drink— it really was suspicious that the alcohol had survived untouched for so long, but neither could she devise any logic from poisoning the whole shelf on the off-chance some wild foreign mercenary stormed in and killed everyone, then happened to go exploring in the cellar. Whatever the case, the strips declared it safe to drink.

She would be the first to admit that she was a wretched lightweight, and feeling a bit bolder by the time her glass was drained. Luckily, there was no one around to witness her rush of tipsy delight— maybe she’d read one of the dirty novels Leandra left lying around. There was nothing better to waste a buzz on.

Of course, she was fairly certain she must have said so out loud because immediately as she began making her way to the library there was a knock at the front door. She’d just been wondering if she was going to pick up one of the _really_ dirty ones or try and reign herself in and just stick with something mildly scandalous and _not_ learn some strange new things about her mother, when she abruptly remembered that she was the only one home and so it fell to her to answer it.

She peeked through the peephole first, to make sure whoever was there was worthy of wasting her time on. It was Sebastian, looking agitated and impatient, and she hesitated for a second. _Was_ he worth the time? If it was important, certainly, and it looked important, but for the infinite love of Andraste if she had to argue a side in his fucking identity crisis one more time she was going to snap. Of course she understood that he was struggling, but he’d been on the fence since she’d known him.

Prince, Brother, Prince, Brother, fucking Prince, fucking Brother. The only thing that her and Elthina agreed on was that he flipped flopped so often it was impossible to tell what he really wanted— well, they both knew he wanted someone to tell him what the right choice was, so if he was unhappy it wasn’t truly his fault.

Marceline urged him towards Prince, of course. Whatever his cousin’s role in the plot to murder the Vaels— minimal, Sebastian assured her— he was still sitting on the throne at the behest of a woman corrupted by a demon. It was not his rightful place and of course she believed that no matter what his merit as a ruler— minimal, Sebastian assured her— it was not his responsibility. _Politics are corrupt enough without demons in the mix,_ she’d told him sternly. _It is not the Maker’s will for you to leave your people to deal with whatever consequences arise out of that vile woman’s scheming. This may not be the path your parents intended for you, but I hesitate to say that they ever saw any of this coming._

She opened the door.

“I’ve made a decision,” Sebastian declared.

She shut the door, and he pounded on it again.

“I’ve fallen for this before,” she declared at her very much unlocked front entrance. He wouldn’t force his way in, but neither did she expect him to simply leave.

“Hawke,” he said shortly, unwilling to air his news to the streets of Hightown. “Open the door.”

She sighed deeply and pulled it back, giving him a hard look.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“If you must.”

“You were right,” he said, stepping inside and carefully avoiding walking into her. She snorted and shut her house behind him, following him to her living room where the wine was still on the coffee table and she was suddenly very grateful she’d been interrupted _before_ bringing the erotica to the fireplace.

“You decide _that_ at least once a week,” she sniffed, moving to sit back down on the couch. There was plenty of room to keep Andraste between them, but Sebastian seemed to want to pace “Wine?”

“No, thank-you, and I mean it this time. Elthina told me that I could do more good as a pacifist Chantry brother— that by laying down my weapon I am protecting those that I would have done harm to,” he explained. Marcy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “But as I turned this over in my head, I wondered what _you_ would say.”

“One must always consider opposing viewpoints,” she said blandly.

“I thought— what about the victims of the people I might have harmed? Elthina made me feel small and impulsive for buying the deaths of the Flint Mercenary Company, but what of the people they would have killed?” he asked. “They clearly had no problems resorting to outright murder for coin, and my parents may not have been holy Andraste and the Maker on their thrones, but they were by no means _despots._ They died for _politics,_ not because of their own folly.”

“I agree.” Marcy hadn’t needed to say it, but she did— mostly because she was surprised. Sebastian seemed to be constantly underestimating her regard for human life in a way that painted _her_ as no better than a paid killer. For him to acknowledge that she was right?

Blasphemy, certainly. _Elthina must be livid._

“And what if I retired my bow and took my vows? What _good_ is the Chantry doing here in Kirkwall? Elthina refuses to take a side with a stubbornness that she accuses _me_ of! Most of my brothers and sisters of the faith rarely even leave the Chantry anymore because they fear the fighting in the streets; those that do go out collect donations from our poorest people, and seem to pretend as if any of these Marcher nobles have already given enough.” His face was flushed red and she thought it was probably unfair that he couldn’t even be ugly when he was worked up.

“Maker forbid Fifi or Babette de Launcet actually have to suffer the indignity of charity,” she snorted, trying to resist pouring herself another glass of wine. One made her bolder if a bit fuzzier, but two would make her embarrassingly blunt.

“But _you—_ you and Aveline are the backbone of order in this chaos. Even Fenris, as legally dubious as he is, does more for the citizens of this city than the Chantry has bothered to do in years— Maker forgive me for saying it, but even _Anders_ runs a free clinic for refugees. I’m fairly certain most of my brothers and sisters were against the admittance of refugees at all.” He threw himself onto the couch beside her, landing with a little _pomf_ that she might have laughed at if he didn’t look so miserable.

“Have you decided then that you want to be a Prince, or have you acknowledged that the Chantry isn’t fulfilling its duty and are fleeing it?” she asked.

“Both,” he answered.

“You can’t have both, Seb.” She tried to be gentle, reaching out to put her hands on his arm.

“I am a man of action and I don’t belong anywhere that would purposely put its hands over its ears and pretend that nothing bad is happening,” he explained. “I am grateful for what I’ve learned in my time at the Chantry, and proud to say that it has made me a better man than I would have been had I stayed in Starkhaven. I’m not turning my back on my life as a brother, but the Maker helps those who will help themselves— it is not His will for me to put down my bow while I can still help.” He never took his eyes off the fire, and she wondered if he wanted her to justify his decision.

“What about Elthina?” she asked.

“I will remain with her until I am confident that I have enough support to scare my cousin away. I don’t expect him to be stubborn about the throne, but I’ve been wrong before,” he said, rubbing his hands across his face. He wasn’t wearing his armour, or the robes of a brother— just a modest tunic with some leather reinforcements. Obviously he’d stopped fearing the gangs in Hightown.

“And she’ll allow that?”

“Hopefully. If not, I’ll get a suite next to Varric’s,” he said with a crooked smile. Marceline laughed, her eyes drawing his to the alcohol that was sitting sitting there. He noted the poison strip with a snort. “Maybe I will have some wine after all.”

“I’ll get you a glass.” She rose up from the couch, wondering what else he was going to say. He’d made a decision and she approved— there was really nothing else to talk about, or nothing that they’d ever _tried_ to discuss with each other. Beginning a conversation wasn’t the difficult part, but they’d always inevitably started fighting because the Chantry and Starkhaven coloured everything they’d said to each other.

What would happen now that he’d supposedly decided?

She poured him his wine and herself another glass, urging herself to nurse it. She drank so infrequently that she couldn’t risk any sort of alcohol hubris, especially in front of Sebastian of all people. It would earn her a lecture on sobriety, as if the shit hadn’t been a wild child before.

Not that two glasses of wine really counted as _troubled_ behaviour.

“I’ve made another decision,” he told her, and she inclined her head. “I have to put my best foot forward in Starkhaven— I have to be a better candidate for the throne than Goran in every way. I figure a good a place as any to start is with a princess consort to return with me,” he said. Marceline narrowly avoided shooting wine out her nose, settling for a rather more elegant _sucking it down the wrong pipe and hacking up a lung._

She tried to gasp wheezing breaths while her whole torso shook with (air-deprivation and) laughter. _Maker._ “If you tell… Fifi and Babette at the same time… you’ll get to watch them… start a fistfight,” she rasped, hastily putting down the glass. Sebastian’s hand came to her back and she started, which did nothing for her air situation.

It wasn’t until she’d finally taken a few deep, even breaths, that he shook his head. “I had not intended to tell either of them,” he said wryly. “I like to think I’m better at politics than _that.”_

“No offence, but Flora Harimann would be court suicide. Everyone knows what her mother did, and I doubt they would be so kind as you are,” she warned, relieved as her choking fit passed.

“Have I misread something?” Sebastian asked, and she turned and looked at him.

“You could always _try—_ ”

“I wasn’t intending to try,” he corrected her. “Even if I thought it would be a clever move, I wouldn’t— her mother killed my _family.”_ Marceline felt her neck turn vaguely red.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, and he shook his head.

“I may have made an error,” he mused.

“Well there’s plenty of nobles,” she told him comfortingly. “You don’t even have to stick with someone you know. Find a nice girl with sense enough in her head enough to recognize the benefit for both of you, and you’re set.” She wasn’t good at… any of this, really. Even being a minor noble was too complex for her— forks and satin and homes with more than one floor and more than three rooms… it was all very difficult to keep track of. So far, she’d been lucky enough to deflect Leandra’s attention from finding her a husband.

“Perhaps I should be plain—” Sebastian turned her to face him, taking her hands in his. His fingers were rough from the bow and burned in places from errant candlewax. She’d held his hands before— of course she had, he was a rather touchy sort of man— but she couldn’t figure out why he was doing it now. Maybe he was happy. “I intended to ask _you_ if you would return with me when the time comes.”

_Oh._

“Why in the Maker’s name would you pick _me?”_ she asked incredulously. He seemed a little surprised by the answer, perhaps less confident than before.

“Did I misread your attention?” he asked. She thought back— certainly she’d never said to herself _I quite like Sebastian, perhaps I’ll get a bit fresh._ She’d always respected his vows even though she thought they were senseless, and never… perhaps never _consciously…_

She did like him. He was handsome and funny, kind, wicked with a bow… she’d just spent so much time playing tug of war with him over Starkhaven and the Chantry and her basic duty to keep Kirkwall from imploding that she’d never… thought about it.

“No,” she said slowly, but dropped his hands. “You didn’t, but I don’t think it’s the best move for you.” The wheels were starting to turn in full now that he’d been blunt, and it would be a disaster. She could see every single way that it would end badly for him, and it wasn’t worth it. “I mean, if I were anyone else— if I were in any other situation I’d gladly help you out, Sebastian, but I’m a poor choice.”

“I don’t think so.” She looked at him and for a moment wondered if he really… perhaps he was choosing because he _liked_ her. That would be— that would…

“I’m glad you don’t, but it’s true. To start, I’m only technically nobility through blood—”

“What a coincidence, so am I,” he teased. She snorted a little, trying to bite down on a smile, then decided to stand up and walk away from him. It was hard to tell him all this if he insisted on being so… _Sebastian_ about it.

“I wasn’t _born_ here. I wasn’t even raised as an Amell— the only reason I’m tolerated in Hightown is because I’m independently wealthy and no one cares about the Amells anymore, which is another reason you should avoid me. I’m not even a noble house, I’m a footnote,” she explained evenly. The effect was probably spoiled by her fidgeting, but she’d take what she could get.

“Then you’ll be marrying up,” he pointed out. _Marrying._ She was going to throw up a thousand butterflies. “And my title is an official authority in the Free Marches, so you couldn’t even say there was someone that would please your mother more.” That rat bastard knew all her buttons.

“All right, so what happens when I pop out a mage baby?” she demanded, aggressively _not_ thinking about having children with him. That was a _lot_ of intimacy with someone who she’d been too nervous to flirt with before— this was all a _lot_ of intimacy for someone she normally considered a brother of the faith.

“We send it to the Circle?” Bless him, he had no idea what she was on about.

“And then another?”

“We… also, send it to a Circle?”

“And another?”

“How many did you plan on having?” he asked with a laugh, and she felt if ever she’d find out she was a mage it would be in that moment when she blushed so hard she caught fire and died.

“You’re missing my _point._ My line has magic, and not even _distant_ magic. My cousin on my mother’s side, my sister, my father, who knows _how_ many on his side—” It was all very overwhelming for a moment. She usually tried not to linger on the number of mages, how narrowly she’d escaped the curse even in her immediate family… “And I’ve been harbouring at least one apostate my whole life,” she added, to her shame. Bethany had been the best of them, and even then… she should have been in the Circle. If she’d been in the Circle then Marceline could not have taken her to the Deep Roads, and wouldn’t have lost her.

Sebastian rose to guide her back to the couch, and she followed because she had to make it clear to him that it _wasn’t_ him. It was her— her blood, her shortcomings, her actions— that made this whole situation impossible.

“I’ve thought about this deeply, Hawke,” he told her, holding one of her hands. “There are a thousand solutions to this, if it frightens you. Although I very firmly believe we could take our chances and leave it in the Maker’s hands, we could also adopt. Starkhaven is a Marcher State— it isn’t so strict as Ferelden about bloodlines. We could have a chaste marriage without any children at all and leave the throne to a cousin— I _know_ you, Marceline. Believe me when I say you can trust me; I won’t force you to have children if you don’t want to, and it won’t affect how I feel about you or my decision.”

He really had no damn _right_ being so _Sebastian_ about this.

“It doesn’t bother you?” she asked. “Not even a little?”

“Having a mage child? Perhaps I would mourn that they would not know us as a non-mage would, but I would not be _angry_ with you for happening to have mage relatives,” he told her. Marcy very abruptly realized that there wasn’t room for Andraste between them anymore, which was… strange. This was all… very strange. To think that she’d been planning on getting wasted and reading smut for the rest of her night.

Not that any of this made any more sense than that. “There’s still no _benefit_ to you,” she insisted, quieter because he was only a few inches away. Their legs were touching. It was all very _what not to do with a Chantry brother in your home_ and she was actually fairly certain there _had_ to be an erotica _exactly_ like this somewhere. If there wasn’t, she was certain Isabela was helping Varric write one.

He adjusted his position and Marceline realized she was receiving notice. His hand was on her jaw and sweet mercy of Andraste this was going to be a thing. He leaned down and their noses brushed— she really did like his nose best of all, jutting and crooked from a bar fight, he’d admitted to her, nothing so grand as an archer being locked into close quarters— and he kissed her.

Marcy was beginning to think that maybe he _did_ like her.

She wanted to document the way it felt to kiss him but there was a constant and perfect note of a shriek building up in her head that rather prevented her from doing anything but sit there, with his idle hand clenched between both of hers. He relaxed her white-knuckled fingers, weaving his own between them. She fluttered her eyes open— just a little, to peek—- and almost headbutted him when she heard Leandra suddenly gasp.

“ _Marceline Eloise Hawke.”_

Sebastian pulled away with a wet sound, a blush chasing up his throat.

“A _Chantry brother? Honestly?”_

“Mother—”

“I thought I was pushing it with the apostate,” Leandra muttered faintly, putting down the bags of food she’d bought. “I really thought _well the worst thing she could do is run off with an apostate and Marcy would never_ and now look where that got me. A Chantry brother.”

“He isn’t a brother anymore,” Marcy protested, her face hot.

“ _Clearly.”_

“I have decided to retake Starkhaven from my cousin. I had just asked your daughter if she would return with me to be my consort,” Sebastian offered politely, almost as red as Marcy was (the sun drenched brown of his skin really set it off much better than her own complexion— _Maker_ had he always been so handsome?). He showed even further courtesy when, after a heartbeat where Leandra absorbed that fact, he reached out and caught her when the woman fainted dead away. “I’m sorry,” he offered with a grimace in her daughter’s direction. “I should have asked you before I told her.”

“What for?” Would it have been better to let Leandra think her eldest and now only child was seducing a man of the faith?

“I don’t want to pressure you into a decision.” He let Leandra down carefully on the couch, straightening up and making proper eye contact with Marceline. “Take all the time you need. I don’t intend to leave the city until the matter of the Qunari has been settled in a satisfactory manner, at the very least.”

Marcy shifted her weight back and forth, then smiled at him nervously. “I had rather thought I’d made my decision,” she admitted. Her kiss could have been more enthused, in fairness, instead of stock still and in shock. Sebastian tensed in anticipation and she shifted forward anxiously— and then closer, and closer, until he put his arms around her waist and grinned into her hair. She felt his mouth press little kisses against her head, and she muffled a laugh against his shoulder. "So you've planned this whole coup rather thoroughly, then?" she asked, trying to stop fluttering and put herself back to business. Agreeing to be a consort to a Prince was one thing, but he wasn't quite the Prince yet.

"Aye, and a rather critical detail just fell right into place." Marcy resisted the urge to roll her eyes just barely, and decided to ignore that she was grinning so broadly that her face was beginning to hurt.

"Flirt." He was rather unrepentant (which was an refreshing change), but she could forgive him. Just the once.

**Author's Note:**

> standing right next to Paladin Danse in the "men I shouldn't be attracted to" club is Sebastian. To be honest I'll usually take him Prince or Brother, but I favour Prince because fuck the Chantry. I hate the Chantry and sorry bruv but I fucking hate Elthina too so. . . . . . . . . . . prince it is. buddy deserves to be the boss of his gaddam self after so long taking priestly vows at such a young age. yall know im always a Big Fan of chaste romances too though so.... if priests didnt have such an ugly negative connotation in my head I would be wild for it.
> 
> [My Writing Tumblr](http://www.nebulaad.tumblr.com) \- follow for infrequent screenshots and better content. Talk directly to this horrible fic goblin who keeps cranking out work no one asked for, and watch me struggle with basic fucking html what the fuck is wrong with this thing honestly.


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